


I Feel A Little Rush (I Think I've Got A Crush)

by haiplana



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 08:18:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15681555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haiplana/pseuds/haiplana
Summary: When Isabella receives word that Harcourt has left London, she resolves to return to her home and has Charlotte to accompany her.





	I Feel A Little Rush (I Think I've Got A Crush)

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to turn into more, but I quite like where I've decided to end it.

It’s after five days of living on Greek Street that Isabella receives a letter written in shaky handwriting on expensive cream paper. Jacob brings it into the house and takes it straight to the room where Isabella is still in bed, head on Charlotte’s thigh, beginning to fall back asleep as her lover absently runs wisps of Isabella’s hair through her fingers.  
From the other side of the door, Jacob calls, “Charlotte,” and Isabella feels Charlotte gently replace her leg with a pillow before pressing a kiss to her hairline that she can feel the weight of for moments after. Charlotte opens the door, and Isabella hears his voice clearer. “A letter for Lady Isabella.”

“Thanks, Sprout,” Charlotte says, and she closes the door as two little feet run away.

Isabella is more awake, now, but unwilling to even sit up. She opens her eyes and watches Charlotte, now in her plain shift and reading the wording on the envelope. Hollers and clacks and whinnies of horses rise to their window from the street below. Nothing is ever truly quiet on Greek Street, and Isabella rather enjoys it.

“Who is it from?” Isabella asks. Her voice is as husky as it always is, but it’s gravelly in the back of her throat from sleep.

“I don’t know.” Charlotte walks to Isabella’s side of the bed and sits, her hip pressed firmly against Isabella’s. She hands it to Isabella, who studies the messy print. “Will you open it?”

Isabella slips her finger under the flap of the envelope and slides it neatly under the whole thing until it’s opened. There is only one sheet inside, though the paper is thick and smooth. It’s written on her letterhead that she left on the desk in the library. The message is short, and words are misspelled, but her mouth drops open at what it says.

“It’s from my maid. She writes that Harcourt has gone to the country with Lord Liddington and will not be back for two days,” Isabella says. She traces her finger over the ink, can feel its smoothness curling under her nerves. Then she crumples the letter and crawls around Charlotte until her feet hit the floor. She wets a rag at the basin and cleans herself off quickly, then goes to where her clothes are neatly folded on a trunk near the fire. The fabrics are warm as she begins slipping them over her head and onto her legs. Once she gets to a part that she can’t do on her own, she turns to Charlotte. “Will you help me, dear?”

Charlotte’s eyes are narrowed, but she moves slowly to Isabella and begins tugging and tying. “Where are you going?” she asks warily.

“Home.”

“No.” Charlotte stops her ministrations and Isabella’s pockets fall to the floor. She steps around the garments to stand in front of Isabella, a stern look on her face. “It’s too dangerous.”

“He’s gone, left London for God knows where. He won’t even know I’ve returned,” Isabella says, leveling Charlotte with a threatening stare.

“The servants will tell him.”

“The servants have always been loyal to me. Harcourt only pays their wages.”

Charlotte sighs. “I don’t like it.”

“My darling, I must return. If we are to keep my daughter safe, I need to take things from the house. There are papers that Harcourt could find that give her location and identity,” Isabella explains. She brings a hand to Charlotte’s cheek, then slides it to where her short hair meets her neck and scratches there. Charlotte’s eyes close.

“I’m coming with you.” Charlotte cuts Isabella off before she interjects. “I need to know you’re safe, that he doesn’t—”

Charlotte swallows thickly, and Isabella remembers that Charlotte knows the abuse that she has experienced, knows how it feels to be taken too young and to be touched when the touch isn’t wanted. Isabella wraps her arms around Charlotte and holds her head to her chest.

“Okay,” she whispers, “okay.”

 

 

William orders them a coach and they climb into it, Charlotte first and Isabella following as Charlotte steadies her with a hand on her hip. They sit on opposite sides of the coach and let their toes touch. The ride is unending, but neither speak to pass the time. Instead, Isabella looks at all of the buildings, watches as they change from low, soot-stained buildings to taller and brighter ones, then thin out until they reach the gardens near the estate.

Her footmen are standing outside, as usual, and when the coach stops they come to the door to open it. Charlotte pays the driver with the money her father gave her before he trots off. The men open the door and see them inside before shutting it behind them with a heavy thud. Inside, the butler is standing at attention.

“Lady Isabella, you’ve returned,” he says in greeting.

Isabella smiles at him slightly. “Yes. I do not know for how long, but perhaps let Becky know, and Mrs. Smith and the kitchen.” She unties the cloak on her shoulders and drops it into his waiting hands. “Please take Miss Wells’ cloak, she will be joining me for the duration of my stay. And if my brother returns, let me know presently.”

“Of course, M’lady.”

Charlotte hands him her cloak, and he leaves. Then she turns to look at Isabella. “I’m still nervous.”

“I understand,” Isabella says. She steps forward and places a hand on Charlotte’s arm. “Would you like me to show you the house?”

“I’ve seen the house.” Charlotte smiles, finally.

“You’ve seen only what the average visitor may see. There is much more that this house has to offer.” Isabella raises an eyebrow and begins walking away, knowing her words are sure to make Charlotte follow.

“Such as?”

Isabella runs her finger casually over a wall. “A private library, a music room.” She looks over her shoulder and catches Charlotte’s eyes. “My bedroom.”

She sees Charlotte flush and grins. For so long Charlotte was the one to flirt and fluster Isabella; now Isabella has found the best ways to catch Charlotte off guard. It amuses her to see the confident Charlotte blushing and stammering, totally consumed by her desire for Isabella.

Isabella walks the familiar halls, not paying attention to much. She finally reaches her room and pushes open the door. The curtains are drawn and light is streaming in, illuminating the golden carvings and pastels. Charlotte gasps when she reaches the door. Isabella stands to the side and her heart fills to watch her lover gaze around the room in adorable awe. Charlotte takes a few steps inside, her eyes darting from one thing to the next: the pastel pink drapes, the ornately carved vanity, the inherited trinkets on her chest — a music box, a jeweled mirror, a weaving.

“Touch anything you like,” Isabella says. Charlotte’s eyes light up and she goes from one part of the room to the other, feeling the walls, looking at the intricacies of the paintings. She reaches the chest and goes immediately for the music box.

“It’s like I can feel the fingerprints of some queen from a hundred years back,” Charlotte whispers. She moves on to the gold carvings. “Everything at Lydia’s shimmered like gold but you could tell it was gilded. This is all authentic.”

“Hadn’t you rich keepers before?” Isabella asks, though it isn’t biting, only curious.

Charlotte laughs. “Sir George had only the castoffs from his main estate, like most of the wealthy men who stay in London. Their wives keep the real treasure.”

“Ah.” Isabella watches Charlotte for a moment more before tending to her goals. “I am glad you like my hoard, then.”

Isabella sits at her vanity and touches all of her pots of make up and tinctures and scents, just to be sure they are safely there. Then she opens the top drawer and pulls a key from the false bottom, reaches down to fit it in the last drawer and turns it. It pops open and Isabella lets out a breath. Her papers are still there, untouched. Harcourt hadn’t yet discovered the location of her daughter.

When she locks the drawer, Isabella looks up to notice Charlotte watching her through the mirror. It is a wonder to have Charlotte standing in her room. She had fantasized about it for weeks after she first met Charlotte, though she thought it only to be in her wildest dreams.

Isabella stands slowly. She turns to find Charlotte still watching her, unmoving. Their eyes lock as Isabella crosses the room to be nearer her. She reaches her destination and they stand a breath apart for a moment. Isabella lifts her hand and presses it just below Charlotte’s breasts.

“May I—”

“Yes.”

They’ve gotten the undressing down to something of a science and are naked in record time. Isabella can’t wait long enough to worry about their hair — she’s already pushing Charlotte to the edge of her bed between kisses. She’s about to climb on top of Charlotte when the girl is stopping her with hands on her hips.

“The spread will be ruined,” Charlotte says.

“Then let it be ruined,” Isabella counters.

Charlotte gasps. “It’s expensive.” So Isabella sighs and pulls it free from where the maids tucked it in and turns it down rather haphazardly. Charlotte is only helpful in lifting her body to allow for it to be moved. “Thank you.”

Rather than reply, Isabella chooses to press Charlotte’s arms into the mattress above her as she fits her hips over Charlotte’s. Charlotte sucks in a sharp breath.

“Is this all right?” Isabella asks. Charlotte only nods.

Isabella releases Charlotte’s arms, but they stay where they were, and Isabella smiles into the kiss that she places on Charlotte’s lips. Isabella shifts her hips so that she presses more into Charlotte. Every reaction to her movements emboldens Isabella and makes her heart beat faster. She kisses down the tight column of Charlotte’s neck, lets her tongue tease over Charlotte’s breasts, sucks bold marks onto Charlotte’s stomach. She worships every line that Charlotte has, every tendon and tight muscle.

Isabella reaches the coarse hair at the apex of Charlotte’s thighs, and Charlotte can barely keep still. Her voice calls for Isabella, implores her for something that she can’t say but that Isabella knows. Isabella smiles into a sharp hipbone before moving her lips lower. Charlotte cries out when Isabella’s tongue traces her folds before beginning to taste deeper.

It’s something new, something that Isabella has never tried, not in all the times they’ve made love. She isn’t sure what to do, but she remembers what Charlotte had done to her, so she copies what she recalls. She flicks her tongue up and down, finds the sensitive spot that she’s only ever felt and presses it, sucks it, reveling in the way Charlotte’s hips press into her mouth.

“Please, Isabella,” Charlotte says from above, panting. “Your fingers, please.”

Isabella is confused, but she does what Charlotte asks and presses her fingers inside. She begins slowly, then finds a rhythm and accompanies them with flicks of her tongue over Charlotte’s sensitive spot.

She’s come to know what Charlotte sounds like, _feels_ like when she’s about to come. Her legs clench and quiver, she tightens around her fingers, and Charlotte’s sighs and cries become sharper. She senses it now, so Isabella rises from Charlotte’s hips, still curling her fingers quickly, and it’s only a moment before she feels Charlotte stiffening. It’s a beautiful sight accompanied by a rich, unencumbered sound.

“I love you,” Isabella whispers in Charlotte’s ear, still slowly moving her fingers as Charlotte presses her hips into her hand. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Charlotte tastes of salt when Isabella kisses her heaving chest. She’s trying to regain her normal breaths and she presses a hand to her sweaty forehead. Isabella is kissing around the swell of her breasts when a hand on her jaw pulls her up.

Their foreheads press together, and Charlotte says, “I love you,” and Isabella thinks her heart will burst, and if she dies in this moment she will welcome it because Charlotte Wells loves her.


End file.
